


Words

by anamatics



Category: Rizzoli & Isles
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her mind, Jane came out a long time ago, too bad everyone else missed the memo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I should warn for exhibitionism... just a little bit. Huge thanks to Crackinois for the beta!

****

Words

Jane comes out to Frankie on a Monday. At least in her mind she does. In real life the words don’t come out and she’s just an idiot who’s too scared to tell her kid brother(s) that she likes girls just as much as they’re starting too.

She’s sixteen and sort of hates herself for not saying it afterwards when Frankie’s stupid fourteen year old face asks her if she’s going to hell. She doesn’t fucking know, alright? She’s just a kid, always has been.

What really happens is that Frankie talks about how two chicks at the same time is sort of the best thing ever. Jane wants to throw up in her mouth because it fucking _is_ the best thing ever and goddamnit why can’t she tell Frankie that? She swallows her comments and her retort like the good older sister that she is and gets some asshole (who _most assuredly_ possesses a penis) from school to take her to prom.

(and she doesn’t come out to Frankie.

because that would be suicide and she’s pretty sure her mother would pack her ass up to straight camp faster than she can count to ten and she really should fucking know better than to even think the thoughts while still trapped under her father’s roof.

[girls are great to kiss however and that’s really what she’s hung up on. As always.])

When Jane really comes out to Frankie is a little bit more complicated. 

Mostly because that asshole can’t fucking knock on a goddamn door to save his life.

And her hand was down Maura’s skirt when he walked in.

They have _got_ to stop having sex at the office.

It unfolds as such:

They have the most horrible case imaginable. Dead kids, crazy mother who probably killed them. Drowned ‘em in the bathtub to save them from abject poverty. Fucking nuts man, Jane hates her job. She’s freaking out, tightly wound and miserable. She wants to make sure that she’s okay, so she goes to see Maura.

Maura who always listens and never judges and generally is far better than Jane deserves. They’re best friends who have become something more.

(interesting sidebar to note: about a month or so ago Frost did tell Jane that she _seriously_ needed to get laid because she was up wound so tight that she was going to end up shooting someone. Jane did not shoot anyone but rather got very drunk with Maura and then drunkenly kissed her because she was her ‘best bro in the whole world.’

[cringe.]

Maura, to her credit, had kissed back.)

“Are you okay?” Maura asks and Jane shakes her head in the negative, fingers trailing through Maura’s hair, lingering on soft tresses, holding Maura as close as she dares in her conservative work space that’s full of homophobic assholes. And Catholic assholes. And Massholes.

(Story of her goddamn life.)

Maura is so soft and so warm and so _kind_ in her own way that Jane just wants to fall into her and never move from this place she’s found with her chin resting on Maura’s shoulder. Maura’s fingers are tracing soothing patterns on her back and she’s lingering there, content and happy. A safe protective bubble where the world cannot get her.

“No,” Jane says. Her voice is raspy, thick with emotions that she cannot describe. No, she is definitely not okay. She probably won’t be okay ever again. Not after seeing what that mother did to her fucking children because she didn’t see another way out of the poverty she was trapped in. “I just…”

Maura kisses her then and Jane lets her. It seems the right thing to do. She’s cold and Maura’s hair feels like silk under her fingertips. “Shhhh,” Maura isn’t supposed to be so damn good at wrangling in Jane’s emotions for her. Jane isn’t supposed to be a fucking crybaby but that’s a story for a different day. Italians are loud, emotional people, her mother tells her, they can’t help themselves. “Let me…”

They’re speaking without words. Silent glances from Jane as Maura pushes her down into one of the awful and uncomfortable chairs that have replaced the couch in Maura’s office. She pauses to draw the blinds and make sure the door is firmly closed before hiking up her skirt and climbing into Jane’s lap.

(it is really cool being able to see that Maura’s wearing stockings today – because Jane likes stockings and likes them on Maura even more. 

and then Jane finds herself with a face full of Maura’s cleavage and even the most mundane thoughts she’s been having vanish from her mind.

Sort of like a guy.

Not that Jane thinks about that. _ever._ )

Maura is there and Jane is fantastically distracted by her tits. They’re fucking perfect and Jane makes sure to tell Maura this as often as time will allow. She touches them with reverent fingers, eyes cast upwards to Maura’s face, watching as it changes.

Emotions are a strange mask that Maura wears. Every single one she has is so deliberate. Jane takes pleasure in drawing them out unbidden. She loves how she can move her thumb across expensive silk and lace and draw Maura’s mouth open in pleasure effortlessly. She loves how Maura’s eyes flutter shut and she throws her head back, hair cascading down her back, when Jane kisses the spot she’s just touched. 

The buttons on Maura’s blouse come away easily, and Jane swallows. They have got to stop having sex at work. They’ve talked about it. Jane’s fucking _mother_ works in the building. It’s a Bad Idea. They know this, and yet they keep doing it. 

(because they’re idiots and in love and Jane sort of secretly wants to get caught because then, well, it’s been said.

and she won’t have to explain it to her mother in very small words that will make her mother fly into a towering rage at Jane’s damning herself to hell.

They’re Italian and Catholic. Something’s gotta give. Jane is not going to be come suddenly straight because she’s going to hell. 

[She’s killed people before – suicide by cop, officer-related shootings, never her fault, IAB’s been all over her shit for it but Jane’s far more worried about the judging that will come after she’s dead and gone. That, at least, she knows is certain.]

she never believed all that vengeful god shit anyway.)

Maura’s breasts are heavy in Jane’s palms, and she pushes them upwards and together, showing the skin’s exposed with little kisses. Never long enough to leave marks (she’s tempted – just to see if Maura would even care, or wear it like a badge of honor [money on the latter]), but enough to make Maura lick her lips and tangle her hands in Jane’s hair. Pulling just enough, keeping Jane in place as she shoves the lace of Maura’s bra aside and draws Maura’s hardening nipple into her mouth. 

Jane likes it when Maura gets bossy. 

(which usually involves Jane surrendering all control and letting Maura take the reins for a while. Maura’s a good lover, great on top. She can make Jane scream, but oftentimes that isn’t the point. The point is to trust someone so implicitly that you can let them take the control away from you.

Maura is that person for Jane and realizing that was terrifying enough without the added sexuality (non)crisis on top of it. )

Jane does what she’s told and stays there. Her tongue flicking quick little motions across the skin she’s drawn into her mouth, marveling at how hard Maura’s nipple has grown.

Her free hand is pushing Maura’s skirt further up her leg. Maura has the best legs, they’re well-muscled and seem to go on forever. Jane has spent hours between Maura’s thighs, worshiping at the altar that is this woman. Today that’s not really on the table, however. 

This is more about forgetting, the time for lingering will come later. 

“You’re not…” Jane pulls her head away from Maura’s breast as her fingers, desperately searching for lace or fabric find nothing but hot wet heat. 

Maura gives Jane a flirty smile and shifts her body, rolling her hips forward, trying to get Jane to move her hand. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Oh, Jane is definitely surprised. And in the best fucking way possible, because Maura (who is always ready to go) is wet and wanting Jane and only Jane. She’s gunna fill her up, fuck her good. It’s gunna feel so nice, all of their long-fingered (at the workplace) fucking. Jane’s harsh intake of breath is a promise of things to come, and when Maura pushes herself down Jane moves up and into her. 

The sound that Maura makes as Jane fills her is godly. A fluttery intake of breath and Jane can feel how _tight_ she is. How _wet_. 

(this does not make her a guy, not in the long run.

If Jane could, she probably would. 

She’s not afraid to fuck like a man, but it’s the principle of the matter. She’s got to have Maura every way a woman can before she goes for the kill, the final act of ownership.

Maura suggested it, not Jane. She bought the fucking thing that now sits, un-opened, in Jane’s gun safe. She keeps it there because her mother doesn’t know the combination to the lock – and it’s the only place Jane can think to hide something that cannot, for the love of all things holy, ever see the light of day.)

“Love how you get like this,” Jane’s moving her fingers inside Maura, angling herself so that she can hit that one spot just right. 

Maura is crumbling in her arms; Jane is biting harder, eyes glazed over as she feels her own body start to become overly aroused. The pace is frantic, but Jane wants to go harder and faster. She has to, has to see if she can make Maura come, if she can tempt the reaction from her with a thumb to clit – pushing, rubbing as Maura fucks herself on Jane’s fingers.  
She’s in control, after all.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jane looks up to see Frankie standing in the doorway, hand half-raised to knock, a stack of files in his hands. 

Jane’s hand doesn’t move, frozen inside Maura.

“Frankie. Hi.”

“I’m going to turn around now,” Frankie says, spinning on one foot. “Do you have any bleach, Doctor Isles?”

Maura is a little bit far gone at this point, but the look of utter _confusion_ that crosses her face is sort of adorable. “Wh… why would you want that?” Her voice is shaking and she’s breathing heavily. Jane shifts her wrist and Maura gasps, hips moving unbidden into Jane.

Jane is pretty sure that if she moves at all Maura’s gunna come and that’d be embarrassing for the both of them. She swallows and stays put. For now. 

“Give us a minute?” she calls.

Frankie doesn’t move. “You’re gay?” he says. “I thought that that was just a joke.”

(it was the first billion times they said it and then it just turned hurtful and Jane had to kick a few asses just to ensure that no one fucking did that shit again because fuck that the tampons in her water bottle were enough, thank you.)

Fuck it.

“Yes, Frank, I am. Now would you please _go away?”_ Jane is growling, voice low and angry, but at the same time this is the worst fucking thing in the goddamn would. Frankie can’t keep his mouth shut and he’ll go blabbing to her mother and then she’ll never hear the end of it.

Frankie walks away. Jane waits until she can hear the door to the morgue slam before she shifts her wrist once more. She’s talking filth now and she knows Maura likes it. Likes how the words roll off Jane’s tongue, Boston and Italian thick and heavy. “Like that, did you?” she asks, pushing all mortification from her brain for the moment. She knows what Maura needs and she’s not enough of a dick to deny her. “Like having my goddamn brother walk in on you about to come?”

Maura doesn’t say anything. She never responds to Jane when she’s talking like this, like her upbringing, like a _guy_. She grabs Jane’s face and presses her lips hard against Jane’s, silencing her moan as she comes, hot and heavy, all over Jane’s hand.

(Jane likes it that way. Likes the stickiness and the smell and the feeling of utter lust that she gets when she feels that wetness on her fingers, she could go for hours, she swears she could. She wants to. Marathon sex with Maura Isles sounds like the best fucking idea ever and they’ve a day off in common next week.)

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

Frankie.

And it’s awful and embarrassing again. Really awful. Like run and hide and never come out of your room embarrassing, but as Jane takes her hand back from Maura, she can’t help but notice Maura seems rather unperturbed by the whole thing.

Jane is mortified enough for two, so that’s okay. 

“Feel better?” Maura asks, straightening her blouse. It doesn’t quite cover the mark Jane left.

Jane smirks.

“Not at all,” Jane mutters, and heads out to deal with Frankie, her mother, and the fall out of her outing.

It had to happen sometime, after all.


End file.
